It's all a pack of lies - I mean -
Sure I put staples in the blender
But I know I locked the door when I was done
So I don't know how all those raccoons got in
Or why they decided to build a fort under the bathtub
At least they had the decency not to eat the cat
I was having problems of my own
My wheatpaste was undercooked & poorly blended
I had a long night ahead of me & already I was behind
The first flyer I tried to put up was a disaster
The ink smeared and the paper buckled
Altho tragic, this complication was nothing new to me
It was eerily reminiscent of
The Nuclear Berkeley flier disaster of 1999
In which I discovered retrospectively
You have to rub down your fliers
With a frequently-worn sock
& As all of my socks are frequently worn
I was in luck
I was in New York City & it was the middle of winter
So I was loath to bare my extremities & even so I did it
I took off my shoes in two feet of snow
& Peeled off my seasoned socks
Even in the crisp frigid air the fragrance brought a tear to my eye
Perhaps I felt a bit nostalgic
Or maybe it was the windchill factor
There I was - in the dark, snow-covered night
Alone - with bare feet
& A disappointing bucket of paste
& A bag full of promising fliers
I was starting to think that this is sometimes
The best part of the show
An invasion of public space
Inciting a provocation to commit randomness
We all have something darker, more distorted & vulnerable
Hidden underneath the surface
This was what was going through my head
When everything started to unravel
First of all - a dog ran away with my socks
& Then a snowplow zoomed by
And buried my wheatpaste bucket in its wake
All I had left was a bag full of wilting fliers and a need for coffee
I decided to return to the scene of my wheatpaste cookout
Where I found not only raccoons
But an apartment full of passed-out
And/or puking punks
So again - for the record - it wasn't my fault!